


Cold Nights, Warm Hands

by trapper_john



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Back Pain, Fluff, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trapper_john/pseuds/trapper_john
Summary: Hawkeye's back pain is acting up again, the result of long hours in surgery and too much time on his feet. He's determined to push through it alone, but fortunately, Trapper can see right through him. Takes place just before the episode "The Longjohn Flap".





	Cold Nights, Warm Hands

_ It just isn’t fair,  _ Hawkeye reflected ruefully, shrugging on his lab coat with a wince and a grimace.  _ Follow-up surgery  _ and  _ rounds right afterwards, to boot.  _ He’d been on his feet for hours, toes nicely squished into boots that were just a little too small for him, thanks to his in-between sizes feet. Standing over a table bent at a forty-five degree angle couldn’t be good for anyone, especially someone with what he suspected was a bulging disc.

“Hopefully it herniates and puts me out of my misery,” he said out loud to himself as he shuffled into Post-Op, one shoulder pulled up to his ear in an effort to give his spine a change of pace. 

“Pierce!” exclaimed Frank, slamming his clipboard down on the desk he was seated at. “You’re fifteen minutes late!” 

Hawkeye rolled his eyes and made his way over to the desk, giving Frank an exasperated look. “Well, you know, I figured I’d do a little light surgery to warm up first, and I got carried away. Sorry if I ate into your busy schedule.”

With a snort, Frank turned away and began shuffling his papers, doing a poor imitation of looking busy. “I’ll have you know that while you were gone, Private Schmidt had a coughing fit and had to have one of his chest tubes refitted. Now, that should have happened on your watch, but oh no, you made that  _ my _ responsibility.”

“Well I’m sure you handled it with your usual grace and care,” he said, turning to give the kid a worried look. Schmidt, barely tipping the scales at a hundred and thirty pounds, looked distinctly pale and peaked, and had been drifting in and out of sleep for the last 36 hours. “Anything else go wrong, or were we limited to just the one disaster?”

“Nerts,” snapped Frank, “Just start your shift so I can get out of here.”

“Why?” asked Trapper, appearing from behind a partition curtain. “Afraid you’re late for your afternoon session with Hot Lips?” He gave Hawkeye a grin that was quickly returned.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Frank, crossing his arms. 

“Stopping in for a poker proposition,” said Trapper with a shrug. “There’s a game tonight after the movie; you in, Hawk?”

“Is water wet? Count on it.”

“Oh, and I suppose I’m expected to leave my own place of living while you reprobates take up the whole tent with your drinking and gambling?” groused Frank, scowling.

“C’mon Frank, we all know you plan to spend the evening canoodling with Hot Lips,” said Hawkeye, rolling his shoulders to try and work out the kinks in his muscles. The movement did not go unnoticed by his friend. “It’s no skin off your pointy little nose.”

Trapper caught his eye, giving him a curious look, and accepted his shrug-off with his own shrug. “Yeah Frank, if it gets too loud, just yell across the compound. Her tent’s not that far away, we’ll hear ya.”

“I resent that on both my and Major Houlihan’s behalf!”

Rolling his shoulders seemed to have no effect on the rapidly worsening pressure in his lower back, so Hawkeye settled for leaning heavily on the desk, trying to give his spine a brief reprieve. “Frank” he said, disguising his position as an excuse to get even further up in Frank’s space, “I promise, we’ll just play Go-Fish for pennies and drink soda.”

“I’ve had enough of both of you,” sneered Frank, twisting this way and that to give both him and Trapper the full benefit of his annoyance. “You’re both degenerates.”

“We’ve heard that one before, it’s getting a bit old,” said Hawkeye, faking a stretch and a yawn. As he lifted one arm above his head, he heard a slight pop and felt a sharp twinge in one shoulder blade, and his face crumpled momentarily at the pain. Trapper, who had been watching him with a slight grin, lost his smile.

“Get outta here Frank, you’re keepin’ the lady waiting,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Frank left with a harumph and a promise that the conversation wasn’t finished. 

As soon as he was gone, Trapper circled around the desk, and after a furtive look around, took Hawkeye by the arm and led him to sit down in Frank’s vacated chair, looking him over with a concerned frown. “You doin’ okay?”

“Well I don’t need the smelling salts quite yet,” said Hawkeye, finding it impossible to hold back a sigh of relief as he sank further back in the chair. 

“It’s your back, isn’t it?” asked Trapper with a raised eyebrow. Hawkeye half-smiled at the worry on his face. “What, why are you grinnin’ at me?”

“Just taking a moment to appreciate the view,” said Hawkeye, letting the smile grow. “Don’t worry about me, Trap, just a little discomfort.”

Trapper snorted and reached for Frank’s abandoned clipboard. “I think I know you well enough to know that your ‘little discomfort’ is other people’s ‘high pain’. Why don’t you sit down for a bit, let me do the walkthrough?” 

“Nope,” he said, snatching the clipboard back. “It’s not your shift. Besides, Schmidt’s had a hard day. He deserves to see a friendly face after Frank hovering over him all day.”

“What, I’m not friendly?”

“A pretty face, then,” Hawkeye amended with a smirk. “Go on, get out of here.”

Trapper didn’t budge from his place by the desk, a familiar, stubborn look in his eyes that Hawkeye both hated and was terribly fond of. “Nah, I think I’ll hang out here for a while.”

_ “Trapper,”  _ insisted Hawkeye, giving him an affectionate nudge. “I’m not gonna die just walking up and down rows of beds. C’mon, you gotta go get the Swamp ready for a night of debauchery and inadvisable bets.”

A second passed as Trapper considered this, then his mouth quirked and he dropped a sudden kiss onto the top of Hawk’s head. Hawkeye blinked and immediately checked for nearby nurses, but Post-Op was mostly empty, and the patients were sleeping. Ginger was at the other end of the room, mostly hidden behind a partition curtain and absorbed in her task.

“What was that for?” he asked once his fears were assuaged, looking up at Trapper with one hand pressed to the top of his head. 

“Stop by the Swamp once the movie starts,” said Trapper, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “I got a surprise for ya.”

Hawkeye raised his eyebrows, excitement stirring in his belly. “What kind of surprise?” he asked, biting his lower lip. “Got something fun in mind?”

“Somethin’,” Trapper agreed, and chucked him gently on the shoulder. “See ya after this shift, okay?”

Despite the insistent pain in his back, Hawkeye couldn’t help but build up a sense of anticipation; suddenly his shift seemed unbearably long. Ignoring his discomfort was easier than waiting, and forcing himself to be patient had never been his forte. 

“Alright, see you,” he said, and Trapper left with a far too smug look. Hawkeye turned back to his paperwork with a sigh, flipping to Schmidt’s chart. He could at least undo whatever damage Frank had undoubtedly done while he waited.

 

 

 

Hawkeye sat finishing the final touches on his paperwork, one eye on the clock as the minute hand ticked closer and closer to 2030 - 8:30, in people time. As soon as the minute hand hit its final mark, he was up and out of his chair like a shot, leaving his lab coat behind as he hurried out into the compound. Outside, it was already dark, and a chill wind was beginning to gust through the tents, a sure sign of the coming cold months. 

On his way, he was accosted by Margie Cutler, her green wool scarf wrapped around her head and topped with her daisy mae hat. “Oh, good, I was afraid you were never gonna get out of there in time for the movie,” she said, taking him by the arm.

He groaned inwardly; was there a date he had managed to forget about? The double life didn’t suit him as well as he thought it would. “Well, you know I don’t like to keep a lady waiting - so where is she?” he asked, hoping Margie would help clue him in somehow.

She laughed and elbowed him. “Standing right next to me. You missed dinner, you know. Things were so quiet you could hear a fork drop.”

“Were Frank and Trapper seated anywhere near each other?”

“I guess so?”

“Then I highly doubt that.” Hawkeye glanced at the people hurrying around them, wondering how quickly he could disappear into the crowd. “So, uh, what’s the movie?”

“Probably another Bonzo flick,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “With any luck it’ll be one we’ve already seen a hundred times.”

“With any luck at all,” he agreed absentmindedly, craning his neck towards the Swamp. “Uh, listen Margie, not that I’m not a big fan of Bonzo, but I’ve gotta help Trapper set up for tonight’s poker game.”

Margie sighed. “Why, are you planning to finally clean up that dump?”

“Oh, I think we can manage to scrape away a layer of grime,” he said, giving her a wave as she headed off towards the mess tent. “Let me know how the movie goes!” 

She merely shook her head and headed inside, clutching her jacket a little closer as a fresh blast of wind blew through the camp. 

Hoping not to catch any stragglers on their way to the movie, Hawkeye ducked through a gap in the tents and took a back route towards the Swamp, giving the mostly empty compound a final look around as he reached his destination. He noted with appreciation as he ducked through the door that Trapper had lowered the tent flaps; an unsuspicious move, given the gathering cold. 

Once inside, he found the tent pleasantly warm. A fire was crackling merrily in their little stove, and there was a gas lantern near the still that was being refracted by one of the many glass vials trickling gin into a waiting pitcher. Frank and his sniveling was notably absent, probably simpering at Margaret in a shadowy corner of the mess tent, trading whispers and squeezes while the movie played. 

A card table was set up in the far corner, butting up against Frank’s desk, already spread out with cards and poker chips, empty glasses waiting for gin, and even a bowl of pretzels. Several folding chairs were set up, one of which already had Trapper’s smoking jacket slung over the back. Hawkeye’s own bucket hat waited on another seat.

Trapper himself was busy at the still, pouring them both a martini and looking distinctly not-undressed in his t shirt and pants.

“I never took you for a homemaker,” said Hawkeye, shrugging off his overshirt and hanging it on the end of his bed.

“Neither did I, but boredom makes you do incredible things when you’re waiting for your bunkie to get back,” said Trapper, and passed him a martini, clinking the rim of his glass against Hawkeye’s. 

Hawkeye took a long sip, and was pleasantly surprised when it went down with barely a murmur or cough. “Excellent batch, you must’ve let this one sit for a whole extra five minutes!”

“Ten minutes, actually,” said Trapper, taking a sip from his own glass. “Huh. Guess patience really does have its benefits.”

“Speaking of,” said Hawkeye, moving closer to the still to set his glass aside. “I notice you’re still very clothed despite how very alone we are. And I’ll have you know that army drab just drives me wild.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Good, I’d hate for you to end up changing your mind,” he said, taking a step closer until they were barely a hair’s breadth apart, and took the opportunity to lean up for a kiss. He was used to developing a crick in his neck leaning down to kiss people, but Trapper had a whole inch on him, and that tiny difference alone was enough to make him feel surprisingly giddy.

Trapper leaned back into the kiss for a second, then pulled away with a smile. “Got somethin’ on  _ your  _ mind?” he asked with a teasing smile. 

“I think you already know the answer to that,” he answered, reaching up on the pretext of running his hand through Trapper’s hair, and used the movement to pull him into another kiss. Trapper responded, a comforting, heady respite after a long day of aches and exhaustion, cupping his chin in one hand. 

“This is a good surprise,” murmured Hawkeye, a smile spreading across his face as Trapper tilted his head to the side to press an open mouthed kiss against his neck, leaving behind gentle bite marks. “Surprise me more often, would you?”

Without responding, Trapper slid his hands underneath Hawkeye’s t shirt, an unexpected but not unwelcome sensation. Hawkeye enjoyed his traveling hands for a moment, focusing on the sensations on his neck, before Trapper’s fingers found a knot in his back and began to massage it, prompting a sudden moan from Hawkeye.

Trapper laughed against his neck. “Quiet, wouldja? You and your mouth.”

“Sorry, I just - ah. I wasn’t expecting that.” Hawkeye fell silent, kissing and other activities momentarily forgotten as Trapper explored his back, finding all the spots that hurt the most and doing his best to rub the pain away. 

It only took a few moments for Hawkeye to be leaning completely on Trapper for support, enjoying the first reprieve from pain and tension he’d had in what felt like weeks. With an amused laugh, Trapper took him by the arm and guided him down onto the cot, removing his shirt along the way. 

“Lay down on your stomach,” he said, tossing Hawkeye’s shirt onto a nearby chair. “I have a feeling your spine is almost as neglected as Radar’s hygiene.”

“It couldn’t possibly be that bad,” said Hawkeye, gathering Trapper’s pillow to his chest as support. Strong hands met his shoulders and he sighed into the pillow, experiencing a curious mixture of pain and relief as Trapper dug in with his thumbs and the heels of his palms. 

Trapper grunted as he used the force of his bodyweight to bear down on a particularly stubborn knot, and chuckled as Hawkeye squirmed under his hands. “Lemme know if I’m bein’ too rough on ya. Wouldn’t wanna break ya or anything.”

Something that sounded suspiciously like a whine escaped him, and Hawkeye flushed. “I think we’ve figured out by now that I’m anything but delicate.”

Merely shaking his head, Trapper continued his work and Hawkeye fell silent for once, enjoying the attention being given to him. It was rare for him to relax of his own accord; usually he waited for burnout and the nagging of other people to force him into taking better care of himself. But Trapper had a way of sensing his needs without a word, and applying himself with vigor to the considerably difficult task of keeping Hawkeye afloat. Whether that involved a well timed martini, a quick tug into a nearby storage shed, or a good bout of mischief, he always knew what to do. Not always what to say, but that was Hawkeye’s job, anyway. 

The minutes slipped away and Hawkeye found himself growing drowsy, an incredible feat given the thumbs working so forcefully at his trapezius. If it had been anyone else, or any other time, he would have immediately welcomed the momentary break from the world. But given who was working on him, and the occasion of such uncommon and intimate privacy, he chose to keep himself awake and relish the moment. 

“Any chance you could work on the front before the movie ends?” he mumbled, speaking mostly into the pillow. 

“We ain't got  _ that  _ much time,” Trapper pointed out, “And I’ll be a dead man before I let you start somethin’ we can't finish and leave me with a bee in my bonnet for the rest of the poker game.”

“Is that what you call it?” he asked, and was given a swift tweak on the rear. “Ow! Okay, fine. Can't believe I let you lure me in here on the pretext of sex, and you leave me high and dry.”

The hands left his back and Hawkeye groaned. “I can stop if you're not happy,” said a teasing voice above him. 

“I’m ecstatic! I’m giddy! I’m positively over the moon! Just don't stop that curiously delightful mangling of my back you're doing.”

“I'll have you know that this manglin’ was taught to me by a very nice masseuse in Ginza, and she wasn't just good with backs.” He paused his work on Hawkeye’s shoulders for a moment and prodded his spine in the lumbar region. “Now I'm no chiropractor, but I’d be amiss in my duties as a sawbones if I didn't ask if you've got somethin’ goin’ on back here that I don't know about.”

Hawkeye shrugged with difficulty, annoyed that the massage had stopped. “Might be a bulging disc. Might just be strain from operating for long hours. Either way, what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Stick you in traction,” Trapper suggested, and Hawkeye twisted around to scowl at him. “Yeah, I know. You'd go nuts.”

“I knew there was something rattling around in the old brain box,” said Hawkeye as he settled down again. “Don't worry about it too much. I'm managing fine.”

“I won't then,” said Trapper, and resumed his work on Hawkeye’s shoulders. “But we should probably assign someone to, ‘cause you sure don't.”

Loathe as he was to distract Trapper from his task, Hawkeye sighed and flipped over onto his back, and found Trapper in a rather doctoral position, sitting on the side of the cot with a slight frown. 

“What?” asked the other man, bemused. 

Hawkeye sighed and took one of his hands. The gesture almost seemed to surprise them both; neither of them were used to casual hand holding, or other, publicly familiar gestures. They could get away with dancing and flirting fine, but something as simple as touching hands seemed to step right over that thin line between jokes and potentially outing themselves. Hawkeye contemplated the hand in his; a bit larger than his around the knuckles, scarred on one thumb from a bygone home improvement project, and smiled.  

“Don't worry about it,” he repeated, and Trapper quirked his mouth in a doubtful expression. “C’mon. Don't get all mother hen on me.”

“How am I a mother hen?” demanded Trapper in mock outrage. 

“All you need is a brood of chicks!”

Trapper snorted. “Remind me not to do nice things for you anymore.”

“Don't even joke about that!” Hawkeye exclaimed. “This is the nicest my back has felt since I showed up in this dump!”

“Then turn over so I can finish workin’ out these knots,” said Trapper, casting a glance towards the door. “Movie’s gonna be over soon and I don’t wanna get cut off mid-session.”

Instead of complying, Hawkeye sat up and kissed him, running his own hands under Trapper’s shirt and exploring the broad expanse of his back - not for massaging purposes, but for pulling him closer instead. It took a second for that strong body to yield to his touch, but a moment later he had Trapper leaning over him, reaching up to run a hand through his hair and taking full advantage of his shirtlessness. 

“What’d I say about startin’ somethin’ you can’t finish?” mumbled Trapper. Hawkeye only laughed against his mouth and began to work his shirt off, feeling that it was very unfair that he be the only one half-nude.  _ “Hawk.” _

“Mmm, yes?”

“Listen for a sec-”

“Oh don’t worry, I think I can finish you fine.”

“No, you moron, the movie just ended.”

They pulled apart and Hawkeye cocked his head in the direction of the mess tent with a faint scowl. Sure enough, he could hear the chatter and whoops of people spilling out into the cold compound. He let out an angry sigh and let Trapper pull his shirt back on, giving the poker table an annoyed look.

“Y’know, if the game wasn’t tonight, I bet we could count on Frank going back to Margaret’s tent,” he grumbled. “We could’ve had the whole place to ourselves.”

Trapper shrugged. “You wanna cancel? I hear Henry’s in the hole and considering bettin’ 24 hour passes.”

A sudden vision of a nice, secluded hotel room appeared in Hawkeye’s mind, and he gave the poker table a second, more appraising look. “Where’d you hear that from?”

“Radar, the one who put the idea in his head in the first place.”

“That kid,” said Hawkeye, shaking his head with a grin. He rose to his feet and accosted Trapper as he was putting his smoking jacket on, draping an arm around his neck. “Say bunkie, how does your luck feel tonight?”

Tilting his head, Trapper raised an eyebrow. “Feels pretty good. How’s yours?”

“Fantastic,” said Hawkeye, and scooped up his bucket hat, tilting it at a rakish angle across one eye. “I figure we can score 48 hours altogether out of old Henry tonight, how does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Trapper, his own grin matching Hawkeye’s. “Sounds like a real good plan.”

Outside, Henry’s blustering could be heard, followed by Radar’s mumbled apologies about the cold and Klinger offering the use of his quilted house coat. 

“Here come the sheep, waiting to be shorn!” Hawkeye exclaimed, dropping into his chair as the poker players arrived, ruddy cheeked and expectant with army scrip poking out of their top pockets. “Gentlemen, I trust the cold hasn’t sapped you of your eagerness to play!”

As everyone filed in and found their seats, Hawkeye and Trapper traded a sly look and settled in to play, shuffling their cards with the loud snap of confidence and dealing like they knew what was in every hand. Henry took one look at each of them and glared at Radar, who gave him a helpless shrug, and kissed his chance of winning a pass goodbye. Hawkeye and Trapper were excellent players apart, but downright vicious together. By the end of the night, they were 200 dollars richer, and in each of their money piles was a 24 hour pass to Seoul, crumpled from prying them out of Henry’s hand, and fresh with possibilities. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi, hope you enjoyed! this was really written mostly as an excuse to vicariously deal with my own back pain :P you can find me on tumblr over @trapper-john :)


End file.
